Desperate Measures
by FFcrazy15
Summary: B.J. receives a letter from Peg saying that Erin is sick. When a patient dies, he decides to take desperate measures to get back to her. F*L*O*C*K 4077 piece.


Disclaimer: don't own, don't profit, no copyright infringement intended.

**M*A*S*H**

"Mail call!" Klinger said, coming into the Swamp.

The three doctors looked over, excited. "One letter from a Miss Honoria Winchester," Klinger said, handing Charles a thick-papered letter with perfect cursive writing, "One from a Dr. Daniel Pierce-" this one to Hawkeye, "-and one from a Mrs. Peg Hunnicutt."

"Fantastic," B.J. said, grinning. He took the letter, tearing it open.

"Gentlemen, I bid you a doe."

"Adieu, Klinger," Charles corrected.

"That too." The clerk left, humming _Happy Times_ off-key to himself.

"Hey, my dad just got a new patient," Hawkeye said happily. "'Course the kid's only a few days old."

"Does the 'kid' have a name?" Charles asked, carefully unfolding Honoria's letter.

"Yeah, Charles."

"Yes?"

"No, the kid's name is Charles."

"Well, he's off to a good start," the Bostonian commented, and then chuckled.

"What is it?"

"Honoria has gotten a job at the bank. Mother and Father are predictably furious, but she says she enjoys working."

"Well when all the money in the bank is yours," Hawkeye quipped. "Good for her, though." He looked over at B.J., and noticed for the first time that the doctor's face had gone ashen. "What's wrong? Something happen at home?"

B.J. looked up, mouth tight. "Erin. She has a fever of 103."

"Oh God," Hawkeye said, all humor gone from his voice. "Beej, I'm sorry."

"What does it say; is she alright?" Charles asked, concerned.

"I don't know. Peg was in the hospital when she wrote this; look, it's all on hospital stationary." He held the paper up for them to see. "She says that Erin's in the E.R. She would have called, but all our lines were down."

"That was back in the shelling siege two weeks ago," Hawkeye remembered. "Beej, I'm sure Erin's fine by now."

"Right," B.J. said, trying to smile. It didn't work.

**M*A*S*H**

Post-op was full of busyness and talk. Now a full week since the last OR session, most of the patients were well on their way to good health.

"Hey, doc," one of them said, catching Hawkeye by the white coat as he walked between beds. "You know where my stuff is?"

"What's your name?"

"Willis, Jim Willis."

He glanced over his shoulder. "Beej, can you get me the personal effects chart?"

The other doctor didn't respond, instead continuing to stare at a patient's clipboard.

"Beej." He walked over. "Beej, you there?"

"What?" He looked up. "Oh. Sorry, Hawkeye, what was that?"

"Personal effects chart. There's a guy here who wants some stuff from his box."

"Uh, sure. Here." He dug through a series of papers and handed it to him, going back to reading the clipboard.

"Sorry 'bout that," Hawkeye said, walking back over. "He's a little out of it today. Willis you said?"

"Yeah."

"You're… box twenty-four. What you got in there?"

"Photo of my girl, a watch, some money- oh, and a pistol. It belonged to my old man, back in WWI."

Hawkeye whistled. "Just like most of the Mess Tent's rations." The patient chuckled. "What you want out of it?"

"My picture and the money. Some of the guys want to play poker."

"Smart. I'll be back in a bit." As he walked out, he patted B.J. on the shoulder. "Hang in there, buddy."

His friend gave him a short, unconvincing smile. As Hawkeye walked out, B.J. went back to reading the clipboard. A minute later, he realized he hadn't taken in a word.

**M*A*S*H**

"Come on, Klinger, can't you let me make just one call?"

"Look, B.J., I'm sorry," the clerk said, shrugging. "I'm forbidden for making any non-military calls for the next week; they don't want the lines getting jammed."

"They? Who's they?"

"I don't know, some group of generals or something. Apparently they're waiting for some sort of call and we're not allowed to put through anything that's not absolutely necessary. If I made an exception for you I'd have to make an exception for everybody."

"This is ridi-"

The doors to the office suddenly slammed open. "B.J., come quick," Margaret said urgently.

"What is it?" he said, hurrying out the door.

"You remember Private Jordan, that skinny patient, the one with the fever?"

"Yeah, what is it?"

"It's hit 104.5."

He swore. "Have you tried cooling him down?"

"I've got Kelly running a lukewarm bath right now, but I want a doctor there, too."

"What about Hawk; he was the one who operated on him."

"He can't; he and Charles went back in on a patient with a bleeder. Hurry!"

They ran into the OR, where Hawkeye and Charles were already scrubbed and operating on another patient. "We've got the bath, Major," Kelly said, huffing as she and another nurse carried the coffin full of water in.* "Jamie's coming in with the patient in a second."

A moment later, another nurse carted in the man on a gurney. He was a small, scrawny boy, with whitish-blonde hair- one of the ones that they could all tell falsified his records to look eighteen when he was really too young to be fighting in an army. He was shuddering and shaking, sweat coating his whole body with a wet sheen. His face was dangerously flushed.

"Get him in the water, quickly," Hawkeye called over from his patient.

"On three," Margaret said. "One, two, three." She and B.J. hefted the man up and put him in the water. "Kelly, get Fr. Mulcahy!"

"On it!" She hurried out of the OR.

"C'mon, kid," B.J. muttered. "You can do this."

"He doesn't look like he's going into shock yet," Margaret said, hope in her voice.

A black-clad figure hurried in. "How is he?" Mulcahy asked.

"We're not sure yet," Margaret answered, eyes still on the boy's face. He continued to shudder. The priest knelt down beside him and began praying, making the Sign of the Cross.

Suddenly, the jerking and shuddering became stronger, and then quit altogether. Margaret checked his pulse and swore loudly. "He's gone into cardiac arrest!"

B.J. thrust his hands into the coffin, water sloshing over the side. "Come on!" he ordered, pumping his chest. "I know you can do this!" He breathed twice into the boy's mouth and began again. "Stay with us, kid. That's an order, dammit!" More breaths, more pumps. "Come on, you son of a bitch, come on-"

A hand settled on his shoulder. "B.J.," Mulcahy said softly.

He ignored the priest. "Come on, dammit, don't give up now-"

"B.J., he's gone."

Slowly, he stopped. His eyes were fixed on the boy's face. There was no motion, no breath. Nothing.

Margaret let out a low, sad sigh. "Kelly, get him cleaned up… and rinse the coffin out."

The nurse nodded sadly. "Yes, Major." She nodded towards Jamie, and together they lifted the body out of the water and set him reverently back on the stretcher. Mulcahy lowered his hand and began murmuring prayers.

B.J. stood up and walked numbly out of the OR. Somehow, his feet brought him back towards the Swamp. As he stared around at the tent, something hot and hard began to burn in his stomach. Without waiting, he pulled his suitcase out from under his bed.

**M*A*S*H**

"God, I'm beat. I hope we didn't miss anything else, because if I have to get up one more time-" Hawkeye stopped, the screen door closing behind him. "What are you doing?"

"Packing," B.J. said shortly.

"Packing? To go where?"

"San Francisco."

Hawkeye suddenly realized what was going on. "B.J., aren't you taking this a little too far-?"

"Too far?" he demanded, standing up and zipping the suitcase closed. "Did you see that kid in there, Hawkeye? He was alive, and now he's dead. He had a fever of 104.5; that's just a degree and a half higher than Erin's was."

"B.J.-"

"What if things didn't' get better, huh?" he demanded. "You know they're not letting any calls in or out. Hawkeye, what if Erin is-" He couldn't finish, instead picking up his suitcase.

"Look, I know you're worried, but going AWOL is not the answer!"

"My baby girl is in danger, Hawkeye; don't you tell me what is and is not the answer!" He started for the door.

"B.J., I can't let you do this!"

"Get out of my way, Hawk."

"No."

"Get out of my way!"

"Not on your life!"

His friend's face twisted into an ugly snarl, and for a second, Hawkeye felt terror run through him. A moment later, B.J.'s fist swung towards his jaw.

He yelped and ducked, the wind of the punch ruffling his dark hair. He jumped up and tried to swing back, but B.J. was too fast. He hit him once in the nose, once in the chin, and then grabbed him by the torso and threw him onto the cot.

The last thing Hawkeye knew was a sickening CRACK! before everything snapped to black.

B.J. looked at his unconscious friend, panting. For a split second, he felt guilt, before he remembered Erin, remembered how she could be-

He turned and left the Swamp, heading for the jeeps. Suddenly, he stopped. What if others tried to stop him? He couldn't beat everyone up like he had Hawkeye. No, he needed something better. Something to protect himself with- and to threaten others.

He hurried over to the storage shed and opened the door cautiously. The light was already on. He slipped inside.

_Hawkeye said that guy's box was twenty-four. Let's see… forty-seven… thirty-six… Here we go, twenty-f-_

"B.J.?"

He stopped short, his adrenaline spiking, but didn't turn around. "Um, hey, Father. What're you doing here?"

"Sorting Private Jordan's personal effects. Yourself?"

"Oh, just… returning some of Lt. Willis's poker money. He and some of the other patients had a game tonight."

"Oh, I see. That's mighty kind of you, B.J."

He nodded wordlessly, guilt bubbling alongside fear in his stomach. He waited until Mulcahy had gone back to sorting the late private's things, before opening the box.

The gun sat in the middle of it the box, surrounded by a wallet, a picture and a watch. It gleamed a dull, dark silver color, tempting him. It seemed like every nerve in his body was screaming at him to run, but his mind overruled them, his only thoughts those of his ill child and his wife.

He slipped the gun out of the drawer into the inside of his jacket and glanced over. Fr. Mulcahy hadn't noticed anything. He closed the box and said as calmly as he could manage, "Have a good night, Father."

"You as well. Where are you going?"

"Oh, uh- to Rosie's. For a drink."

"I could go for a drink right now. Mind if I join you?"

"That's not a good idea," he said quickly.

The priest frowned. "Really? Why not?"

He tried to think of a reason, but the hot, burning feeling that had started in his gut had filled his head, too. "You know, I actually can't think of why you shouldn't."

"So I can come?" When the doctor didn't quite answer, the priest smiled comfortingly. "I know. It's been a hard day. Let's go get something to drink, hm?"

He nodded mutely. Father put Private Jordan's box back in its place and followed him out. They walked towards the jeeps, crickets chirruping around them.

"Have you already signed one out?" Mulcahy asked.

"Yeah," he answered automatically. "Yeah, I've got the second one on the right."

They clambered into his chosen getaway car, the priest still not suspecting a thing. B.J. thought frantically of how he was going to get rid of him. He didn't want to hurt the man, but he couldn't just stay, either.

"Will Hawkeye be joining us?" Mulcahy asked, taking the passenger seat.

"No, he's, uh, sleeping. In the tent. Long day, you know."

"I see. I hope he's alright."

He nodded absently and drove out of the compound. As they left the limits, his heart began to race. The gun felt like it was burning against his skin inside the jacket.

They entered the village. B.J. stopped in front of Rosie's and said, "You get out; I'll go park."

"No, I'll go with you. I like walking at night; it's calming." He gave a small smile. B.J. swallowed and put the car in drive.

They passed Rosie's, then a few houses. Fr. Mulcahy looked around, frowning. "Just how far away are we parking?"

He didn't answer. Mulcahy sat there, confused but trusting. As they passed the last few houses and entered the forest surrounding the small village, he looked over at B.J., suddenly wary. After a few more minutes, he said quietly, "We're not going to Rosie's, are we, B.J.?"

The doctor was silent for another long second, and then pulled the vehicle to a stop. "Get out of the jeep, Father."

"B.J.-"

"I said get out of the jeep!" he shouted, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. The horn let out a loud honk, startling the doctor and a flock of birds in the surrounding trees. In the split second of confusion, Fr. Mulcahy yanked the keys out of the ignition and jumped out over the side.

B.J. tried to start the car again, and then noticed that the keys were missing. "What the-" He looked over at the priest, and then climbed out of the jeep, as well. "Father, give me the keys."

Mulcahy shook his head. "I can't do that, B.J."

"Give me the goddamn keys!" he roared.

"I understand it's been a bad day, but-"

"DAMMIT, FATHER!" he screamed, pulling out the gun.

Mulcahy jumped. "My God! Is that a-"

"Give me the keys or so help me, Father, I will shoot!"

"B.J., what in the world is going on here?!" he demanded.

The surgeon's hands were shaking, his mouth twisted in fear and anger. "It doesn't matter, just hand the keys over!"

"You're pointing a gun at your friend; I'm of the opinion it matters a great deal!" He held up his hands, the keys in one of them. "B.J., listen to me. I promise you I won't make you do anything you don't want to do. Just point the gun somewhere else, and we can talk."

"No!" he roared. "You don't understand, Father, you can't understand! _You don't have a family!"_

Though the words stung, the priest knew that B.J. wasn't in his right mind. "You're right, I don't," he said, as calmly as he could. "I don't understand, but maybe I could if you just _talked_ to me about it." When the doctor still looked hesitant, he added, "I swear, if you still want to leave after we've discussed this, I will give you the keys and let you drive away. Just lower the gun and tell me what's wrong."

B.J. stared at him for a long moment, and then lowered the pistol. "Okay," he said, breathing hard. "Okay, we can talk."

"Good. Now, why don't you tell me what has you so… distressed."

He swallowed thickly and nodded, hands still gripped tightly around the gun. "Don't move."

"I won't."

He took several deep breaths. "It's Erin. Peg wrote me a letter and said she was in the hospital."

"Oh my," the priest said, worried. "Is she alright?"

"She had a fever of 103. I've got to get home, Father, I have to know if she…"

"If she died?"

"Don't say it," he snarled. Mulcahy held up his hands higher.

"Alright, I won't say it. But B.J., how can you be so sure something's wrong?"

"Didn't you see that kid in there?! He died right in front of us; there was nothing we could do!"

"B.J., sometimes things happen-"

"Well they're damn well not happening to my daughter!"

"B.J., listen to me," he said seriously. "I'm sure Erin is just fine. Think about it: that letter was written two weeks ago. If she were- if something had happened,, wouldn't Peg have sent you a telegram by now?"

His logic was starting to make sense, but B.J. tried to shove it away. "Why didn't she call to tell me Erin was okay then?"

"The lines have been closed to personal calls for a week, and before that they were down altogether, you know that." He took a step forward, and then another after that when the doctor didn't raise the gun. "If you go AWOL now, how will that help Erin or Peg? Even if you did get home to the States, imagine if you arrived and Erin was just fine? You would be an outlaw, a man on the run, never able to see your family or give them a normal, happy life. Is that what you want?"

After a moment, the doctor shook his head. "No."

"Then if Erin is most likely alright and trying to get home would only cause them pain, is it really what you want to do?"

There was a long silence, before B.J. said, "…I guess not."

"Then how's about you hand me that gun?"

Slowly, slowly, B.J. loosened his grip on the pistol, and turned it around, so that the barrel was facing him. He reached forward, and Mulcahy took it carefully, pointing it down at the ground. The doctor's hands started shaking again, and he collapsed forward, gasping for air.

The priest caught him and embraced him. "I know," he said soothingly.

"I'm sorry," he cried. "I'm sorry, I-"

"It's alright. Though I wish I could say this happens less than it does."

The doctor let out a choked laugh and hugged tightly him in return. Mulcahy patted his back. "It's going to be alright, B.J., I promise."

The man took a shuddering breath and drew away. "Sorry," he mumbled again, wiping his eyes.

He smiled gently. "Already forgiven, my son." He patted him on the shoulder and held up the keys. "Why don't we get back to camp?"

"You're really going to trust me with these?"

"I think you can handle them now."

B.J. nodded and took them. He walked back around to the other side of the jeep and climbed in. Mulcahy did the same. As he turned on the ignition, he looked over at the priest and said, "Thanks, Father."

"You're welcome. Would you like to stop at Rosie's for a drink?"

He laughed a little at that. "Yeah, I think that'd be good." He turned the keys and the engine rumbled to life. As he turned the car around, he thought of Peg and Erin back home, and realized that in all reality, they were probably both alive and well.

That more than anything else gave him hope.

**M*A*S*H**

**(Two days later)**

"Hey, doctor, this telegram just arrived in for you," Klinger said, handing B.J. an envelope.

The doctor tore it open and then let out a whoop. "She's alright! Peg says she knew I'd have gotten the letter by now, and that Erin is just fine and almost back to full health."

"Well thank God for that," Mulcahy said happily, taking a drink from his coffee.

"Wish I could say the same for my nose," Hawkeye groused, touching the white strip across it gingerly.

"Oh, don't be such a Debbie Downer," B.J. said, grinning. "I think you needed a nose job."

"Very funny. Whatever convinced you to come back anyway, Beej?"

The doctor and the priest glanced at each other. "Let's just say a good friend appealed to my better judgment," B.J. said with a grateful smile, before stabbing a piece of rubbery sausage with his fork.

Mulcahy smiled a little at that himself and glanced skyward, offering a prayer of thanks, before taking a bite of his own breakfast. All was well.

*From the hypothermia episode.


End file.
